"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress. ” “Where do you go?” “Oh!—Alps. Thank you for the books. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty.
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